Loud And Out Of Key
by The Brat Prince
Summary: "Did you- did you just imply I'm a lousy lay?" Jett asks, scandalized. His eyes are bulging out of his head, this vein in his forehead throbbing.


**Loud And Out Of Key**

A/N: This one I don't think I ever uploaded? Uh. Oops. Original author's notes: HIHIHIHI. So thiiiiis is for Becky, beautiful, gorgeous, wonderful Becky, birthday queen of July. And I actually would have posted it on time, except for a freak occurrence of nature (terrifying sky to ground bright white blinding scary as fuck lightning not once but twice this week, what even) that took out my Fios. Meaning I've been internet/tv/telephoneless for like, a week. And by telephoneless I mean landlines, which, whatever, who even uses those anymore, but THE INTERNET. It is my love and I cuddle it now, feel me cuddling you internet? Anyway, the mean, mean lightning could not stop me forever, no siree, so now, Becky, may I deliver your present? …wait, what do you mean you didn't want randomness with a side of Jett and Kendall screwing in the Palmwoods lobby? TAKE IT AND GO, and a happy birthday to youuuuuuuu. A giganormous arigatou gozaimasu to jblostfan16 for giving me a super quick, super supportive beta and to breila_rose for calming my nerves with her chamomile smooth sweet talking, you guys are the best, honey bears.

* * *

Kendall is having a bad day.

Like, a really bad day. All he wants from his life is a beer, but he's not sure how to smuggle a six pack from a liquor store without ruining the band's squeaky clean image. Shit was easier in Minnesota, when he wasn't living underneath a magnifying glass.

"I want a beer," he announces.

No one cares. Mostly because no one is listening. James and Logan have been glaring at each other from opposite ends of the couch for close to an hour now, and Carlos is off camping in the woods with his pony-bribe, Wildfire. Kendall had to dress up as Smokey the Bear and give him a stern lecture about how only he could prevent a goddamned forest fire, because that's happened more than once during s'more hour in the past. But now he's mostly wishing he went off into the wilderness with him, because night blooming jasmine and Joshua trees are a far more interesting sight than this. As far as movie marathon nights go, it's been disastrous.

"Guys, this is frustrating. To me," Kendall clarifies. James snorts. Logan stares adamantly at the TV, where the credits for the Star Trek reboot are already rolling. Kendall sighs, fingers digging into his knees, and turns to face James. "Can't you just give in and play sexy librarian for Logan already?"

"No." James is intent on sulking. Kendall can tell by the jut of his lower lip and the slink of his shoulders and the very, very whiny tone of his voice.

This isn't good. James is an expert sulker. He can have week-long sulking marathons.

Patiently as possible, Kendall inquires, "Why?"

"Then I'd have to read."

"You don't have to read the books," Logan says in a voice edged with impatience, like maybe he's had this argument before.

He probably has. James makes a face. "I have to touch them, don't I?"

"Well, maybe?" Logan flushes, still unused to admitting to his fantasies out loud. Which, whatever, it's not like they don't all know Logan has a vibrant fantasy life. He's made Carlos dress up like a pageant queen more than once, and Kendall's got a lab coat of his very own for whenever they play –used to play- doctor/mad scientist/movie!verse Thor and Jane.

All that's over now that Logan and James are giving this monogamous relationship thing a real try.

Lowly, James retorts, "Then I can still get _infected_."

"By what?" Logan's eyebrows pinch together in confusion.

"Knowledge," James hisses, doing his best imitation of a vampire, flinching away.

Kendall settles his head in his hands and says, "I just want you both to know that you guys dating is the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

James and Logan utterly ignore him in favor of tossing throw pillows at each other, and Kendall decides he hates everything. Getting involved in his friends' sex life is a brand new low, but every time James does something stupid, which is _always_, Kendall ends up getting dragged into it. It's the way things work. Worked.

He's been playing master and commander of conflict resolution between his best friends since they were rugrats, but he honestly wouldn't have bothered back then if he'd known all their bickering was _foreplay_.

The TV remote hits him in the ear, which, "Ow, assholes," and he bolts to his feet. "That's it. I'm leaving before you guys get to the kiss and make up stage of this- ew, ugh, guys, get a room!"

"We have a room," James shoots back on a breathy moan. "The living room."

There is not enough therapy in the world to help Kendall cope with the trauma of watching his besties fuck like bunnies on the living room couch, so slowly and valiantly, he retreats towards the door of the apartment, calling, "Text me when you're both…not-"

His voice is muffled when Logan's t-shirt hits him in the chest.

"–naked. You are the worst friends in the entire world, I loathe you."

He backs out of 2J and slams the door purposefully, but it doesn't really do anything to dull James's chant of, "Logan, Logan, fuck, sure, I'll wear bifocals for you, baby."

Gee, a happy compromise.

It's only in the elevator that Kendall finds blessed silence, but now he has no idea what to do. Marathon night is royally fucked, and it's close to one in the morning. His mom and Katie are back home visiting grandma, and he doesn't actually have anywhere else to go. Maybe Lucy's, but no, she's playing a show in San Francisco and won't be back for at least a day. Figure skating partnership aside, he's not close enough to Camille to ask to crash on her couch, the Jennifers terrify him, and Guitar Dude's vacationing in his motherland (Amsterdam). Kendall's oddly uncomfortable with the idea of telling anyone else he's been sexiled, which is strange. He always figured he had more friends at the Palmwoods.

Kendall's lips set into a pout. He's having as much of a tantrum as he's allowed, but really, he kind of wants to plant himself on the ground and kick and scream and make as much of a fuss as humanly possible.

He has the right to. No one has invited _Kendall_ to dress up as a sexy librarian recently.

Lucy might. If she likes him. He can't really tell. They're in that weird limbo place where Kendall thinks she might be interested, but there's a large possibility he could just be projecting. Also, he's not exactly sure how he feels in return. Jo's absence still smarts like an open wound, and it's been making it hard for Kendall to figure out if what he feels for Lucy is intense admiration or something deeper. She's not like anyone else he knows.

She also scares the fuck out of him. Fear and respect aren't exactly a healthy foundation for a relationship unless it's with your boot camp training officer.

Besides, Kendall's gone from wannabe hockey star to actual famous person in the space of a second, and he has no idea what that means for his future. Big Time Rush has got a single on the radio and they're just beginning to blow up in a way that Kendall never really believed would be possible, but. How long, exactly, can he stick around California once that fame goes away? He can't actually play pop star forever, right?

And that's a problem. Kendall can't get to the rink as often as he likes. His slapshot's getting out of practice. This hockey thing might turn out to be a pipe dream.

What else is there?

Kendall knows he shouldn't be thinking ahead. James, Logan, and Carlos are basking in the spotlight, beginning to carve out futures that aren't anything like what any of them imagined. Except for maybe James, but James also believes in mermaids and fairies and the zombie apocalypse. Kendall has mixed feelings about that last one. But Kendall also has no idea what he wants, much less who. Dragging a smart, funny girl into his uncertainty isn't exactly…fair, even if the band's demise is still only a distant, distant cloud on time's horizon.

He just feels like they're growing and stretching too quickly, achy bones and strained muscles and Charlie horses cramping the way they interact with each other. Everyone always said Hollywood would force them straight into adulthood, but Kendall never really believed it until now.

Maybe it's time he started listening to his elders.

The elevator chimes, doors sliding back to reveal that Bitters is the only person in the lobby, and even he's closing up shop, preparing to retreat to his hovel back behind the counter. Kendall's never been in there, and he's not sure if it's an actual residence or a portal to another dimension.

"Why are you down here?" Bitters snaps, "You can't stay. You'll scare away paying customers."

Kendall scowls. "Because you decided not to invest in soundproofing my bedroom. And who do you think pays for our apartment?"

"Kelly Wainwright," Bitters replies easily, and alright, he might have a point.

"Look, I'll just…I need a quiet place to hang out."

Bitters frowns, the downturn to his lips comical. "Ten minutes."

"Sure." Kendall has no idea how long James and Logan will take, but unless Bitters whips out a stopwatch, he figures he's safe. He sinks down onto one of the lobby couches in the far corner, aware that Bitters is watching him like a hawk for sudden movements or random acts of mischief. Finally, when it becomes clear that Kendall isn't planning on doing anything more than play Angry Birds on his phone, the manager backtracks into his secret room.

To be an ass, Kendall calls brightly, "Night, Mr. Bitters!"

Bitters jabs two fingers at his eyes and one at Kendall in reply before withdrawing completely, the door slamming loud. Kendall shakes his head. That man needs to invest in therapy, big time.

He gets pretty absorbed in his game, muttering curses at every ugly little piglet he fails to disintegrate. It's not exactly the most exciting thing in the world, but the quiet and solitude are a nice break from mayhem and promiscuous BFFs. He lets the tranquility lull him into a false sense of security.

Kendall's finally beginning to relax when the universe throws Jett Stetson at him.

Worse, a Jett Stetson who is fellating a rocket pop and looking super proud to be an American, lips stained red, white, and blue. The ice is melting fast, messy drips that pool in his knuckles. But Jett is eating it slow, lazy, his mouth stretched around the tip. He licks at it, teasing it into submission before sliding down the shaft, and then he starts all over again.

Needless to say, Kendall's having a lot of trouble focusing on his game, and brooding doesn't hold a candle to the show Jett is putting on. He pops his lips off the top only to run his tongue lethargically down the shaft, completely obscene.

And that's about when he spots Kendall.

"Oh, it's you." Jett pauses, mouth poised wet and sticky above the tip of the popsicle. He spies Kendall eyeing his mouth and his lips quirk. "This. Is. Amazing. Want a lick?"

The expression on his face is just _rude_. Kendall cannot actually handle this.

"Can't you just eat that like a normal person?"

Jett approaches the couch, coming to a standstill about an inch too close into Kendall's personal space. Mouth full of ice, he mumbles, "I ahm ten ike a mal personhuh." He swallows, the bob of his Adam's apple hypnotic. "I am eating like a normal person, yeesh. You're more of a buzzkill than usual. Did someone finally buy you a mirror?"

Kendall swats the popsicle out of his hand.

Jett's mouth gapes open. His hand is a sticky, melted mess from where he tried and failed to fumble for the rocket pop. "Sourpuss." When Kendall doesn't rise to the insult, he continues, "You're stressed out. I see that. We'll talk later."

"I don't want to talk later. I don't want to talk ever!" Kendall retorts, maybe a wee bit harshly, but Jett is completely infuriating. Just the sound of his voice makes Kendall see red.

"Now you're being ridiculous. Of course you want to talk to me. I'm Jett Stetson."

"Do you forget your name if you don't repeat it?" Kendall shoots back, blood pressure rising.

"You don't like me," Jett announces in a startlingly observant moment.

"Not really, no," Kendall agrees, because he hates to lie, and besides, he's not sure Jett has any feelings to spare.

Jett gnaws on his lower lip. "Not that I care, but you should make an effort to try to like me."

"Oh really?"

"I'm an amazing friend."

Kendall snorts. "I seriously doubt that."

"How would you know? You've never even tried to be my friend. Not even back in DC."

"We don't talk about DC," Kendall snaps.

"Maybe. We. Should." Jett pops his lips against the last word. He smiles broadly and heat curls in Kendall's stomach, a lick of flame somewhere between irritation and not-so-subtle desire.

He _hates_ it. Jett's got this addictive charisma that nobody's immune to. Once it's in your system, it turns toxic, and the more Kendall falls for it, the more he dislikes himself. It makes him feel all slimy inside, and it all started with DC.

The second the plane touched down at the share-your-green-ideas conference, Jett did everything he could to remind Kendall and whoever else would listen that he was _famous_. He pouted epically when it didn't work. No one seemed to appreciate that _Jett Stetson_ was in the room, no matter how many times Jett brought attention to his name or his amazing hair or at one point, his especially ill-advised jazz hands. Apparently, Jett's fame is limited to the teeny boppers who watch New Town High, and not at all impressive to green energy hippies or wannabe politicians. No big deal, right?

Wrong. Not getting asked for an autograph every point five seconds was evidently a very traumatic and harrowing experience. Jett moped up a storm, and eventually resorted to drastic measures. By the end of the conference, Kendall had had to hook Jett on one of those stretchy, elastic leashes they use for toddlers just to keep him from scampering back to Hollywood.

Of course, that backfired, because it meant Kendall couldn't ever really leave his side. He drove himself insane trying to keep Jett in control. Kendall spent more than one night fervently trying not to think about what else he could use Jett's bungee cord leash for; strangulation or bondage.

He never did figure out which would be more appealing.

Because, the thing is, Jett's kind of…cute. He looked a little lost in the middle of all those big, old monuments, white marble a stark contrast to his golden tan. Jett wore pastel and too much hair gel, and he carried with him the scent of expensive cologne and California clinging to his skin (palm trees, smog, sea salt and desert heat, radiating off of him like he didn't know how to carry anything else with him). At the Lincoln Memorial, he spent an hour and a half earnestly explaining why sideburns would never really make a comeback unless one was operating an indie band out of their garage. In the Air and Space Museum, he used the shiny surfaces of the aircraft to stare at his own reflection. And every time he saw something that actually did catch his interest, Jett would link their fingers together, dragging Kendall relentlessly towards his goal.

Kendall has a _thing_ for ridiculous overconfidence – what some people might call shameless arrogance – and pretty mouths. His track record shows it, from drunken fumbling with James when they were younger to his more recent catastrophe of a non-relationship with Lucy Stone. In DC, he had to fight to keep Jett from joining the crowd. Because Jett Stetson is the _king_ of shamelessly arrogant.

He also has the prettiest mouth.

Mid-week, there was this moment.

Maybe calling it a moment is giving it too much credit. There was the flicker of a second where Kendall could feel…something, an electric charge between them where he wanted to kiss Jett instead of punching him in the face. Where he almost thought they could be…_friends_.

It passed quickly enough, but. Kendall's never really been able to forget it.

"What are you even doing here?" Kendall demands, because what is there actually to talk about? No way is he airing any of that dirty laundry right now. "Isn't it past your bed time?"

Jett blinks. "I'm a super star. I don't have a bed time."

"Careful there, you've come dangerously close to _bragging_."

"Your sarcasm would be so much more hurtful if I cared."

Kendall suppresses a grin. The last time Carlos had to interact with Jett, he'd asked, "_Does he speak asshole to everyone, or is it just you who really brings it out in him_?"

"_It's everyone_," Logan had said, cutting in, "_He gives not-very-bright a whole new meaning_."

But Kendall likes that about Jett. Poking at his ego is fun, because it's nice to have a target who honestly doesn't give a fuck. Even if it inevitably makes Kendall feel a little bit like a bully at the end of the day. Now, he says, "You should care. Technically, I'm more famous than yo…u…"

Kendall trails off, because Jett has clamped his hands over his ears and is now singing. Specifically, he's singing, "La-la-la, I can't hear you."

He really cannot carry a tune.

Kendall tries to yell over the (horrifying, ear-splitting) din, "It's true though, you've never had a Bitters' Jett Stetson Experience Tour!"

Not that Bitters invading his personal space is something he's particularly proud of, but Kendall likes winning, and one-upping Jett definitely counts as winning.

Jett props a hand up in mid-air. "Please, I'm too classy for tourist scams."

Kendall crosses his legs. Then he realizes what he's doing and uncrosses them, shifting uncomfortably over the couch cushions. He replies, "By classy you mean unknown, correct?"

"I am not unknown!"

"Right. How long have you been acting, exactly?"

The question is actual curiosity. The entire time they were in DC, Jett's mom never called, while Kendall's rang up every ninety minutes or so. And Kendall can't remember ever seeing her or Jett's dad anywhere near the Palm Woods. He carries his own father's absence like a chip on his shoulder, but if Jett resents his parents for abandoning him to the Hollywood sharks, it doesn't show on his face. He declares, "I was born in the spotlight," and even though it's boastful and braggy, there is something sad about the words. "Plus you are not more famous than me. For your information, I just wrapped a scene for New Town High's super mysterious season finale extravaganza an hour ago. It's going to put the show on the map."

Kendall mulls that over for a beat. "They are not calling it the super mysterious season finale extravaganza."

"Nope." Jett grins cheekily. "But _Zombie Prom_ sounds lame." He finally settles down on the couch next to Kendall, and Kendall is struck by the sudden realization that this is small talk. Despite the jabs, they're almost being _civil_.

That's what Jett's like. He makes things easy when Kendall's life is getting so unbelievably complicated.

"So you're done for the summer?"

"Yep. Craft services got us rocket pops to celebrate, because we are patriots." Jett glances mournfully at the mess on the lobby carpet. "Unlike some people I could name." He coughs. "_Kendall_."

"Are you asking for an apology?" Kendall does not look at Jett's still red lips. He doesn't. "Because you're not getting one."

"Geez, when's the last time you got laid?"

"Excuse me?"

Jett smirks. "So not in a really long time, then."

"That isn't any of your business."

Jett gives him big, innocent eyes, and says, "I'm just looking out for the residents of this fine establishment. You are a nasty sonofabitch when no one's sucking your dick."

"Is that an offer?" Kendall can't help but retort, because he has the maturity of a second grader.

"Please, you couldn't handle me," Jett replies easily.

Kendall snorts, rakes a hand through his hair. "Not what I've heard."

Okay, so he made that up. Sue him.

"Did you- did you just imply I'm a lousy lay?" Jett asks, scandalized. His eyes are bulging out of his head, this vein in his forehead throbbing.

Kendall shrugs, playing up his nonchalance. "It's what I've heard."

In the privacy of his own head. When he's in a particularly nasty mood.

"From who? That is slander and lies and libel and- and-" Jett stutters, "Sacrilege."

"I also heard that Dak Zevon's more attractive than you are," Kendall adds, enjoying this game. Jett is a warm, comfortable presence at his side, neither of them touching, but heat radiating off their skin.

"Please, I'm more attractive than that, that," Jett splutters, staring at Kendall like he's gone insane. "-old hag."

"Did you just- he's like, twenty two, Jett."

"Which is equivalent to eighty in Hollywood years, and let's not ever tell Dak I said that, okay, he will beat the shit out of- stop laughing, you can't tell him. You can't, you have morals and righteousness and all those stupid _values_, and I've got a standing basketball game with him on Tuesday."

"I didn't know you guys knew each other." Kendall is still smiling a little wryly, because Jett tongue-tied is a rare, rare thing.

"I'm Jett Stetson, I know everyone." He pauses, and then admits. "My first bit part was on The Fifteenth Year."

Kendall wrinkles his nose. "That movie about a teenage yeti coming into his powers and finding his real parents? I don't remember you being in that-"

"I was the camper who got covered in yeti poop." Jett huffs. "It was disgusting."

Kendall claps his hands together. "I remember now. Wait, that was you? Your hair was red."

"It was dye, and don't even try to be cruel. You're not very good at it."

He quirks an eyebrow, knocking his knee against Jett's. "Practice makes perfect."

"Not for you."

Jett licks his lips, and Kendall tracks the movement without meaning to. He changes subjects so quickly it nearly gives Kendall whiplash, announcing, "I know how to make you like me."

"Oh yeah? How?" Kendall challenges, one eyebrow drifting up towards his hairline, because _impossible_-

Jett kisses Kendall right on the mouth.

The kiss is a sucker punch to the kidneys. It pushes all the air out of Kendall's lungs, makes him vaguely sick to his stomach and curls his toes in his sneakers, and without even meaning to his mouth gapes open. Jett doesn't let the opportunity go to waste, slipping in some tongue, one hand braced against Kendall's knee. It takes much, much longer than it should for Kendall to push him away, because hey, Jett Stetson really is an awesome kisser, but-

"That is not the way to get people to like you, idiot!" Kendall yelps, face flaming.

Jett tilts his head to the side. "Really? Because it's making me like you better already."

He's such a jerk, and Kendall thinks it's on purpose, how Jett emphasizes all his worst personality traits. Hell, emphasizes isn't even the word, he throws them right in people's faces. And Kendall gets that, sort of. If everyone knows the bad parts of you, at least they can't suddenly use them as a reason to leave.

Or maybe Kendall's just trying to imagine that the devil has a soul.

"Admit it," Jett's tongue darts out against Kendall's lips. "I'd be the best you've ever had."

"Please, I've fucked James Diamond."

"I knew he batted for both teams," Jett says, hand lingering at Kendall's waist.

"Yeah, well," Kendall swallows. "He's dating Logan now."

Hurt cracks his voice, and he hates it, because he's happy for Logan and James. He honestly is. It's not like he was harboring a deep, passionate crush on either of them. Just, James, Logan, Carlos, and Kendall have always had this weird symbiotic relationship that they all shared, and now it's like half of their foursome has been cordoned off in la-la-love-land.

They're in the VIP section and Kendall's still standing behind the rope, waiting for someone who will make him stop wanting.

"Stop being so serious," Jett commands. "It looks painful."

He kisses Kendall again, longer this time, a little deeper, and when he draws back Kendall exhales a shaky, "Oh."

"Oh?" Jett has the gall to look offended. "You just got a kiss from Number Three on Hollywood's Top Ten Hottest Sons Under Twenty One. Do you know how many people want to be where you're sitting right now? At the very least, I'm going to need an _ooh_, or an _ahhh_."

"What are you, a firework?"

"As far as you're concerned, I'm a supernova." Jett preens. "I'm so far out of your league, I don't know why I'm giving you the gift of my mouth."

Kendall scratches behind his own ear, shifting on the couch and trying not to breathe Jett in. "Number Three? Who beat you?"

"I'd rather not say."

"Dak Zevon?" He guesses.

Jett scowls. "The polls were rigged."

"Who else?"

"Oh for- shut up," Jett instructs, and then his mouth is back. Without thinking about it, Kendall reaches around and palms his hands over Jett's denim-clad butt, squeezing a little too enthusiastically. Jett doesn't appear to mind, whimpering encouragingly into the corner of Kendall's lips before pulling back, crawling up onto his lap. This position is new, too close, the blue of Jett's eyes too bright, pupils too black. He cants his hips forward in a desperate search for friction, while Kendall tongues back into Jett's mouth, licks the shape of his teeth, caressing. He sucks Jett's lower lip, nibbles at the plush and then works off of it, mumbling, "This is a bad idea."

"This is not a bad idea, we should absolutely not stop, why would we stop?" Jett whines back, catching his mouth again. He gives Kendall slow, dizzy kisses that send his head spinning through the stratosphere. "Don't be such a sanctimonious asshole and let me-."

Kendall's head jerks back. "Did you just call me sanctimonious?"

"Burn," Jett says slyly, and there's no way for Kendall to not look at his lips now, spit-wet and red and begging for more.

"I- I…I can't get over you knowing a word with more than two syllables," Kendall tells him, smirking when Jett's mouth acquires an unhappy downturn.

"I know big words."

"Sure you do."

"I do," Jett insists, but he doesn't appear too interested in pursuing the subject once Kendall fits their hips together a second time. He tugs at the collar of Jett's shirt, and he can hear James's voice in his ears, "_Does he pop his collar to look like a douchebag on purpose, or is he such a douchebag that his collar creeps up there on its own?"_ Kendall snorts at the memory, curling his fingers into the ridges of the fabric, trying to smooth it down to see if it really does have magic properties.

That's why he's way too distracted to notice the crazy, crazy gleam in Jett's eyes.

He tackles Kendall off the couch, straight down onto the carpet. Kendall makes an indignant noise that mostly sounds like ow, but Jett isn't even paying attention, his hands fumbling open the front of Kendall's jeans.

Wait, what?

"We're in the lobby!" Kendall screeches.

"I didn't know your voice could go that high," is Jett's pleased reply. Every twitch of his hips is deliberate, emphasizing the heat and his hands, trapped between them. "Relax, no one's around."

Kendall's mouth puckers up like he's sucking on a sour grape. "You don't know that. Bitters is right back there and-"

"Actually I do know that. I have eyes. Come on, Kendall. What's the craziest thing you've ever done?"

"I've done plenty of crazy things."

"Without your buddies attached to your hip?" Jett laughs, loud and boisterous. "Live a little."

Kendall darts a glance left and right, his vision obscured by the little alcove of couches surrounding them. "What if someone comes back from, uh, somewhere?"

"Then they have the great pleasure and fortune of seeing my ass." Jett smacks his own butt for emphasis.

When Kendall doesn't have any clever retort for that, he returns to working open the button on his Levi's, then the zipper, and then he's pushing Kendall's jeans down around his knees. He only makes one idle comment about Kendall's complete lack of a tan and how he's pastier than the Pillsbury Dough Boy, and Kendall manages to ignore it, still rigid, glancing this way and that for a returning starlet or Bitters or somebody to figure out that between the shelter of the Palmwoods sofas, Jett Stetson and Kendall Knight are getting naked.

Kendall isn't really sure why he's not running away.

Jett shrugs Kendall's pants all the way off after a brief scuffle with his sneakers and socks. Kendall thinks he's going to go straight for gold, but Jett merely brushes his thumb against Kendall's big toe, tracing the outline, dipping down the cross-section between it and the next. He gives attention to each toe in turn, and mostly Kendall has to make a concerted effort not to kick him in the face, because this is weird and he is intensely ticklish. He squirms, or tries to, and Jett inches up across the curve of his foot, follows the bones that prong off from his ankle almost tenderly. The fingers of his free hand are a steadying pressure against Kendall's calf, which he works his way up, kissing the skin of his knee, across the flat disk of his patella and around to the soft, fleshy area behind. Each breath he puffs along Kendall's inner thigh makes him shiver, little tingles of electricity racing up and down his nerve endings.

When Jett gets to Kendall's underwear, he prods at the shape of his dick through his boxers, abruptly uncertain.

Kendall has to ask. "You have done this before, right?"

"Of course," Jett bristles. "You think I'd choose you to be my first, first…dalliance with a man?"

"Did you just say dalliance? Did someone buy you a dictionary for Christmas? A thesaurus, maybe?"

"Your unsubtle jabs at my intelligence are unsubtle." Jett pauses. "You're shaking."

He is. He can feel his nerves quaking, his bones the consistency of pudding. He is nothing more than adrenaline and fear.

Kendall isn't ever saying that out loud. "I am not."

"Are too."

"Are not," Kendall insists. Jett rolls his eyes and circles his fingers around the shape of Kendall's cock, the fabric between them uncomfortable and wet, but the weight of his hand spectacular.

Only…it doesn't really seem fair that Kendall isn't actively contributing anything more here than tiny little noises he isn't even completely sure are coming from him, because Jett is fairly loud in his worship of Kendall skin. He moans as the heel of his hand rubs across Kendall, and Kendall echoes it, maybe.

He wants to be a team player and everything, so he gropes down, trying to catch at Jett's shoulder but instead getting his ear. Jett peers up inquiringly.

Roughly, Kendall requests, "Take your pants off."

Jett's eyes go dark. He works up over the waistband of Kendall's boxers, the soft flesh of his belly, and dips his tongue into his belly button and says, "I could be persuaded. What's the magic word?"

"Please," Kendall chokes out, and his voice is never this ragged. "Take your pants off."

Jett is shockingly obedient, pushing off of Kendall's body to stand. He begins working open his belt, wiggles out of his jeans and his underwear in one easy movement, shrugging them past his knees and then doing a little dance to get them the rest of the way off, shoes kicked by the wayside.

He is long planes of light and skin and hipbones. Kendall's mouth goes dry. The lobby is too bright, unforgiving, but Jett hasn't exactly been exaggerating how good-looking he is.

He moves to take off his shirt, and Kendall grits out, "No, wait."

Jett lifts an eyebrow, and Kendall doesn't know how to say that he's not ready for that much intimacy. He forces a grin and says, "I have a weakness for men in fluorescent colors. Nothing says _good in bed_ like neon pink."

"This shirt is yellow." Jett frowns down at his polo.

Kendall shrugs. "You still haven't proved you're good in bed."

He is vulnerable, laying there on the carpet in a thin t-shirt and checkered boxers wet with pre-come, his body haloed by the footprints of everyone who has passed through the Palmwoods lobby. But with Jett glaring down at him, half naked and still every bit as much as a pissy bitch as he's always been, Kendall feels like he still has a modicum of control.

"Get down here."

"I don't know that I want to anymore." Jett makes a face, but his dick bobs between his legs, half-hard and mostly the center of Kendall's attention. How could it not be, all haloed in light? Glory-deo-hallelujah.

"Get down here," Kendall repeats, and Jett falls to his knees, about to straddle Kendall's legs.

"No." Kendall puts a steadying hand against Jett's belly, the couches' shadows stretching long across his body, geometric shapes in gray and gold. "The other way."

Jett's forehead wrinkles. "I don't-"

Kendall sits up, the back of his neck burning – anyone could walk in on this, think of the headlines – and shoves Jett backwards. Now he's the one lying against the carpet, eyes bright and a little wild, buck ass naked from the waist down. Kendall crawls over Jett, smirking, the dark windows of the lobby reflecting dim yellow light that glowers at him like eyes. He doesn't care. Kendall shimmies out of his boxers, draping them across the inside of Jett's thighs in glancing, light touches just to watch the way his mouth drops open. He allows himself a few moments of skin-on-skin, contact that sets his nerves on fire, makes him forget where he is or why he was ever so against it, his body long where Jett's is broad, and it would be so easy to get off this way, rutting against each other hard and fast and fuck. Kendall rests his head against the hollow of Jett's collarbone, and no, this isn't the plan. He sits back on his heels, instructs, "Be very, very quiet."

And then he turns his body around completely.

Jett makes a startled noise, mumbles, "If I didn't know better, I'd think you didn't want to look at my face," and he's half right. Kendall's got a whole new land laid out in front of him, the peaks and valleys of hipbones and trail of hair pioneering on down, the familiar-but-not shape of Jett's cock and then more, thighs and knees and the soft brush of golden hair all the way down to Jett's ankles. Not a trace of insolent lips or loud eyes here, just the simple mechanics of sex and a perfect view of the land beyond, elevators and lobby carpet that is blessedly empty of life.

When Kendall leans down to lap at soft flesh of inner thigh in front of him, the hem of Jett's shirt brushes against the exposed flesh of Kendall's belly, his own tee rucked up a little past his ribcage. Kendall scrapes his teeth across Jett's skin, not hard enough to bite, just pressure and the wet flick of his tongue. Jett lifts towards it, knees falling apart, soundless. There is hot breath between Kendall's own legs, fast paced and ragged, but he ignores that in favor of working his body backwards, teasing up Jett's body towards his goal. He's close, ghosting breaths near it, and Jett's so fucking hard for him already when he hasn't even done anything yet, or barely has, how is that even possible? This is so great.

"What are you even," Jett's voice breaks off, and seriously, he's got Kendall's cock dangling in his face, he is not this dense. Daring, Kendall licks a stripe down the length of him, on past his balls and back as far as he can reach, which isn't very. He uses his fingers to make up the distance, slicking saliva back along Jett's perineum, teasing the rim of his asshole before coming back up. Jett makes a helpless noise that sends a satisfactory shiver through his spine, and seriously, this is the best idea, why have they not done this before?

Kendall feels a hint of wet, right up against the slit of his dick, there and gone in an instant, a moment of courage on Jett's part that passed too quickly.

"Seriously, that's all you've got?" Kendall demands, and grinds down against Jett's mouth, insistent, wet and hot on his lips until Jett has no choice but to open up.

He manages to gasp out, "Fuck, Kendall, got something to prove?" before Kendall's forced his way inside, the angle awkward, but the wet heat exactly what he's been waiting for. Kendall rewards Jett by running his tongue across the head of his cock, lathing across familiar geometry before experimentally taking him inside his mouth. Jett is salty and warm, the taste saltier than what he's used to, a good kind of different.

Jett's hips stutter forward, and Kendall can touch the space beneath the arch of his spine. His knees dig into the carpet, but Jett's lips are skimming light up and down his length. He sighs, occupied by the weight of Jett between his lips and the simultaneous slick-tight sliding along his dick. At first it's enough, the squeeze from the head of his cock to the base, wet and sloppy and good, but then it's not. It's hard to do two things at once, and Kendall begins fucking Jett's mouth in earnest, making him take it without even meaning to because he's so busy learning the shape of Jett's cock in slow, probing sucks. There's something languorous in his motion, a kind of pleasure that he can take in the fine tremble of Jett's knees, the way his stomach jumps every time Kendall's lips wrap tight around the base of him. He works back and forth, up-down with the ease of practice, but despite all his protests, Jett really lacks the finesse of experience. He chokes, Kendall bumping up against the back of his throat, and Kendall groans into it, because _fuck_.

Kendall pops off Jett's dick like he popped off that damn red-white-and-blue popsicle, gasping, "Like that, yeah," spreads his fingers deep into the carpet and bucks down. He kisses over the head of Jett's dick, wanting to feel Jett's hands in his hair, wanting his dick in Jett's ass, and also wanting to get this the hell over with before someone really sees them getting nasty in the Palmwoods lobby, spread out on all fours, flushed red and yearning.

Mostly, Kendall wants to make Jett come, and fast.

He can only spare one hand, the other fixed against the carpet in a death-hold, and he desperately tries to ignore the feeling of Jett's mouth, taking him down-down-down, swallowing around him. He wraps his free fingers around the Jett's dick, cheating, hollowing his cheekbones as he takes Jett in again. He's picked up some tricks with his tongue, knows how to curl it against the underside of Jett one moment and flick it against him on the upswing, and he moves his hand in unison, savoring the way Jett chokes, a high, startled noise that cuts off almost as quickly as it starts. Kendall is mercilessness, and it's more than a necessity – at one point he thinks he hears Bitters in the back room, and he stills, shoved so deep down Jett's throat he can feel the butterfly flutter of his uvula, a tightness that might as well be his tonsils – but it's not like his own gag reflex is something he can turn on and off at will, no matter how much practice he's had. Jett begins fucking his hips up, trying to take Kendall's mouth the same way he's taking Jett's, bossy little bitch. Kendall tastes him in the back of his throat, salty beads of pre-come that he has to swallow against, gagging a little before he pulls off. He jerks his fist fast and tight, mouths along the side of Jett when he can't bear the idea of going down, mouth stretched and raw, and Jett whimpers around him.

Kendall's balls pull tight, but there is no fucking way he's coming before Jett Stetson, he has pride and dignity and honor and shit, so he forges back in, wraps his lips around Jett's cock and sucks with his tongue pressed in close and his hand cupping him the same way he cups himself. Jett's body shudders and there, see, Kendall thinks, warmth flooding his mouth.

He swallows a little, but lets most of Jett's come dribble down the side of own cock, lapping a lick against it once, twice, before sitting back on his heels. Jett's mouth is still around him, barely doing anything but gaping around him, and when Kendall taps on his cheekbone he lets go completely. Kendall gives half a thought to coming on Jett's face, forces himself to slump back against the couch instead. He watches the flicker of Jett's eyelashes and feels prouder than he probably has any right to be.

Still sprawled across the floor, Jett breathes, "Not bad."

"Not bad? I deserve better than a not bad," Kendall can't help his indignation. He is sweaty and not quite sated, all these images of what he _wants_ flashing through his brain.

Jett shrugs. "And I deserved firework sound effects after I kissed you, but the world is just unfair."

"You drive me crazy," Kendall replies, and it's not an insult, not even a little bit. He sounds weary and fond and weary of how fond he is, because this is the worst part about Jett. He has wormed his way under Kendall's skin, for better or for worse. "C'mere," he commands, and Jett's cheeks stretch with glee as he obligingly climbs into Kendall's lap. "Do you do this for everyone, or am I special?"

"Do what?" Jett is breathing heavily, his eyes glazed like he's caught sight of his own reflection. There's a pink tint to his cheeks that's almost cute. Kendall grins, happy, despite himself.

"The Jett Stetson Experience."

"I am in pretty high demand."

"Yeah, okay. Stay still," Kendall says, and then he slots his dick between the heat of Jett's thigh and his balls, rutting into the heat there. Jett groans, dropping his head down onto Kendall's shoulder, breathing hot against his neck.

It takes him no time at all to get off, spilling down beneath the creases of Jett's body, sticky and hot.

Jett grins and says, "That's right, I'm too much man for you," and it's mostly muffled into the skin of Kendall's throat, where he is biting a kiss.

Afterwards, Kendall steps into his jeans in record time, darting glances left and right and left again, watchful for the swing of taxi headlights or the sound of an opening door. Jett isn't nearly so interested in haste, dancing around as he tries to fix the legs of his pants, flashing his ass this way and that.

He steps in the mess that was his rocket pop and curses, then announces, "That was fun."

"Sure." Kendall replies automatically, and then, "It isn't happening again."

Even if he could tolerate something more than Jett's mouth, all the things Kendall thought before about Lucy also apply to Jett. Kendall's still only eighteen and completely unprepared for commitment. Despite being a bastard, Jett doesn't deserve his indecision any more than Lucy would.

Jett shrugs, hopping from foot to foot. "I'm still changing your name in my phone to love muffin."

"Don't you dare."

"Do you think there's a song called Save A Stallion, Ride A Knight? Because that would make a great ringtone. Maybe I can get that stoner kid to record one. When does he get back from his pilgrimage to Ganja-World, honey bun?"

"Jett."

"No, really, Knight, I think it's adorable that you're scared of commitment. I did say I was too much man for you."

"You're not too much- what? God." Kendall shoves a hand through his hair. In the lobby window, he can tell it's already wrecked, sticking up in every direction.

"Oh really, sugar stuffing?" Jett pauses in his jig and cocks an eyebrow while Kendall mouths _sugar stuffing _in horror. "You haven't even seen everything I can do."

He makes a rude gesture with his tongue and Kendall can't even pretend not to be interested.

"I am way too exhausted to deal with your shenanigans," he informs Jett, wonder creeping into his tone. Jett shrugs.

"Then you can deal with them tomorrow when you take me out for sushi and ice cream." Kendall's mouth gapes open. Before he can form words, Jett continues, "What, do you not like sushi?"

"California rolls are alright," Kendall replies automatically, because James has force fed raw fish down all their throats and those are the only things Kendall ever really warmed to.

"California rolls." Jett makes a face that implies Kendall is a classless savage. Then he says, "Fine, it's a date."

"I'm not taking you out for-"

"You owe me a popsicle." Jett presses his lips to Kendall's cheek in a surprising show of sweetness, cutting off all the protests bubbling to Kendall's lips. "See you later, peach blossom."

He saunters towards the elevator, the hickeys on his throat proudly on display. Kendall stares after Jett's back, feeling suspiciously tricked.

He wonders if he can go back to his apartment yet.


End file.
